


In the Bleak Midwinter

by The_Kinky_Pet



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Christmas, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Steve Feels, Surrender series universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kinky_Pet/pseuds/The_Kinky_Pet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve hadn't expected his first Christmas in the 21st Century to be so suffocatingly lonely, but he probably should have known, right? </p><p>----<br/>This is pre-slash in the Surrender series, but can be read entirely separately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> I believe canon Steve is Catholic, but for various reasons (no spoilers!) I’ve made him Episcopalian in my world. Please forgive my canon divergence. :-)

When Tony Stark had asked him to move into Stark Tower, Steve hadn’t realized how hopeful it made him feel. He’d had no idea how badly he’d hoped, almost expected, that moving in would suddenly mean belonging, mean home, mean something like the Howling Commandos again.. . . not until the reality fell so painfully short. 

***

On a cold, wet day in late November, Stark had showed them all to their suites and then to the common areas that he’d designed for them to share— the patio on the roof, the huge kitchen, the (of course) lavish bar, the vast living room. And, sure, the furniture was a little weird looking and a little cold, like so many of the sleek new things around him, but Steve felt pretty sure he could get used to it. So, that first morning in the Tower, Steve came up to eat breakfast with the others. Nobody was there. He read the paper in a huge leather armchair. Nobody came up. Eventually, he went for a run and then retreated to his own far too large, far too lavish suite. That evening he went back to the common room to read yet another history book. Nobody was there. He tried again the next day. Nobody was there. 

A few days later, Steve came into the living room—still optimistic—and found Tony alone, his back to the doorway. Steve opened his mouth, not sure what to say, but eager to say something, probably ‘thank you once more’ or ‘it’s so nice to see you’—then shut it again, when he realized that Tony was talking on the phone. 

“Of course not! That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. . . . No, Pepper, I miss you. I—”

Steve backed out of the room before Tony could notice him. 

The next day when he came up, Steve found Tony and Bruce drinking coffee in the kitchen both scribbling frantically on a large piece of graph paper. They gave Steve a distracted “good morning” and “help yourself to coffee,” then went back to speaking science like it was a foreign language. Steve poured himself a cup of coffee he didn’t really want to drink and sipped it awkwardly for a few minutes while they talked. They seemed to forget he was there and he hated to intrude; what they were talking about seemed very important and perfectly incomprehensible. Steve finished the bitter tasting coffee, washed and dried his mug, then put it away in the cabinet. Steve went for a run. 

The next day, when Steve came into the communal kitchen, he found Clint and Natasha drinking coffee together and speaking softly. He nearly retreated, since it looked like a private moment, but he was never going to get to know his team properly if he didn’t try, so he took a deep breath and said, “Good morning.”

Steve had worried he might startle them, but he should have known better. Natasha had clearly heard him coming. “Morning, Cap.” She threw back the last of her coffee, taking it like a shot, and put the mug in the dish washing machine, then sauntered towards the exit. “Better get a move on, Clint. Can’t keep Hill waiting.” Clint grimaced and finished his coffee. Natasha nodded to Steve as she passed. “Have a good day, Cap.” Clint slapped him on the shoulder and said, “See ya,” as he followed Natasha out. Steve wanted to call after them, to ask if maybe he should come too, if they were going on a mission, what he could do to help. But he didn’t say a word. He picked Clint’s mug up off the kitchen island, washed it, and put it away. 

Steve went for a run. It made sense that he ran alone, since nobody could really keep up with him and running was supposed to be a solitary activity anyway. (So what if he saw tons of couples out running.) It was winter in New York. He was supposed to feel cold. (So what if it was inside and out.) He ran and ran and ran. 

***

On December 19th, Bruce dropped by Steve’s suite to wish him “happy holidays.” He was going to an academic conference in Buenos Aires and decided to stay on for a while to do some sightseeing. Steve wished him a pleasant trip.

On December 21st, Steve came back from his run to find that Clint and Natasha had left him a brisk, professional note informing him that SHEILD had sent them on a mission, but if the Avengers needed to assemble they would be able to get to New York from their new (undisclosed) base in roughly four hours. They left all the necessary information to contact SHEILD and expedite their return in case of an emergency. 

Tony had never said goodbye or mentioned any plans, but Steve hadn’t seen him in days so he figured that he’d gone somewhere with Ms Potts. Steve wished once more that Thor were back from Asgard. 

The Tower was still and quiet on December 24th and, although that was really no different from any other day in the past month, it felt wrong. 

It was terribly cold. 

***

Steve had always loved the pomp and grandeur of midnight services on Christmas eve. The candles, the carols, the organ, the choir. St. Michael’s was a stunning old church and still used the older version of the Book of Common Prayer, unchanged from Steve’s memories. He was lost in a happy throng of people, the church packed for the beloved holiday, its benches and aisles crowded with solitary worshipers of all ages, elderly couples holding hands, young couples with small children struggling to stay awake so late in the evening. There were some people in their twenties with brightly dyed hair, in blues and greens, covered in tattoos and piercings. (And maybe leather isn’t considered inappropriate for Church anymore?) Steve sat on the end of a back row, next to a couple who looked like they might have been born not too long after Steve. They addressed him as ‘young man.’

The liturgy washed over him and he sang happily with the multitude around him, starting to shake off the chill. He couldn’t focus on the sermon (too many references he couldn’t understand), so instead he listed to himself the things he had to be grateful for. (Thank you, Lord, for letting me continue to serve my country. I’m so grateful that we were able to defeat the Chitauri, that we helped to protect New York and the rest of the world. That we prevented so many casualties. . . sorry we couldn’t prevent them all.) Steve felt a little guilty that he couldn’t make a longer list.

The priest intoned: “Lift up your hearts.”

The congregation replied with one voice: “We lift them up unto the Lord.”

And Steve tried hard to mean it. 

The service concluded with a joyous riot of sound, as choir, organ, and congregation sounded “Joy to the World” in tones triumphant. The church bells pealed as everyone bundled up once more in their winter clothes, wishing one another a very merry Christmas. Steve shook hands with John and Cynthia, then turned his steps towards Stark Tower. 

As Steve started briskly back to Stark Tower humming “Joy to the World,” but little by little his pace slowed and he fell silent. It was a beautiful night, clear and bright, the city glistening with Christmas lights far whiter than those he remembered. It wasn’t a very long walk, but his feet dragged.

Steve found himself singing softly, in an undertone, an almost minor key:

 **O come, O come, Emmanuel**  
And ransom captive Israel  
That mourns in lonely exile here  
Until the Son of God appear  
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel  
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

It was nearly 1 am by the time Steve got back to Stark Tower and he realized that he’d been absently repeating the first verse of “O come, O come, Emmanuel” for the past fifteen blocks. He couldn’t seem to remember the rest of the lyrics.

Hot chocolate, he thought as he entered the Tower. He’d make himself a cup of hot chocolate and then he’d go to bed. It was Christmas after all; it was a good time for cocoa. He rode the elevator up and up and up to the empty common rooms, well stocked with food he never saw anybody show up to eat. 

Steve heated a large pan of milk on the stove, then added cocoa powder and sugar, whisking briskly. He moved it to a trivet on the island and got out a large mug. His eyes were prickling and he stared a little blankly into the saucepan. Steve focused on breathing in and out. He was lucky to be alive. Lucky to serve his country. Lucky they’d defeated the Chitauri. Lucky to have a safe place to live, enough food to eat. He should be grateful. He shouldn’t—

“Hey, Cap.”

Steve jolted and looked up to see Tony Stark standing casually in the doorway. (How long were you there?) Steve was embarrassed to be caught feeling sorry for himself, standing around the kitchen in his Church clothes late at night, and he felt oddly guilty too for seeing Tony Stark so unguarded. He didn’t look like he’d been expecting to see Steve either. Tony’s jeans were tattered and smeared with grease and oil (or at least stains from it) and they hung so low on his hips Steve thought they might fall off. Tony was wearing his hoodie unzipped, and Steve could see the fascinating arc reactor glowing through the thin material of his t-shirt. (Don’t stare at it. He must usually cover it up for a reason…) Tony’s hair looked greasy and he had several days of stubble around the edges of his goatee. Steve shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Uh, hi, Tony,” Steve said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Of course I’m here,” Tony said a little blankly. “I live here.” 

“Of course,” Steve agreed hastily, hoping he hadn’t given offense. “I just thought—” Steve bit the words off. (-- thought you were spending Christmas with your sweetheart, that you’d gone off to Paris with Ms Potts or something. . . ) “I just hadn’t seen you in a while.” 

Tony shrugged. “Been busy in the workshop.” He walked over to the kitchen counter and pulled the coffee maker out from the wall. “Hey, JARVIS? Better order two instead of one. Dummy might break the next one and it’s ridiculous not to have a spare.” Tony was unplugging the machine. 

“Certainly, sir,” the AI answered. Steve had finally learned not to be startled by him (it?), but he still looked up at the ceiling every time, even though Tony had explained that JARVIS wasn’t actually in the ceiling.

Tony kept fiddling with the fancy coffee machine, wrapping up cords and wires, rambling on: “’cause I really should have a back up. Coffee is sacred. Sacred! And, seriously, next time Dummy does something like that I’ll use him for scraps. Or donate him to City College. It’s cruel and unusual to force a man to go more than a hundred yards for coffee.” 

“Yes, sir. I’ve placed the order.”

Tony turned to Steve with a wry smile. “Little mishap in the shop. One of my robots and, really, can’t work without coffee, ya know?” Steve nodded. “Top secret Avengers gear—work in progress. Will tell you all about it later if it works. Which it will, ‘cause I’m a genius.” He gave Steve a wink, then gathered the coffee machine in his arms and started towards the elevator. 

(No! Please don’t go!)

“Would you like some cocoa?” Steve blurted, too urgent and too loud. He almost winced at the sound of his voice, half ashamed of how desperate he was for Tony to stay, even for just a few minutes, to ramble about his project for a while or simply sit with him in silence.

Tony froze, then turned to give him a curious look. Steve flushed with embarrassment. (Pathetic—so desperate for a little human contact you make it sound like a call to assemble. He’s busy, stupid. He’s not lonely and he probably doesn’t care about Christmas. Or you.) They stood staring for a few long moments. Steve looked away first, preparing to apologize—though what for he couldn’t exactly say. (For asking you to spend time with me? For not wanting to be entirely alone on Christmas? For offering you cocoa when you’ve just told me you want coffee?)

“I like hot chocolate,” Tony said cautiously. He walked back to the island and set down the coffee maker while Steve got out a second mug and poured them hot chocolate. Tony looked at his watch then frowned and glanced at Steve, then looked at his watch again. 

Tony took a sip of his hot chocolate and said softly, “It’s good. Reminds me of Jarvis.”

Steve glanced at the ceiling before he could catch himself.

“Not my AI JARVIS-- Jarvis. Our butler when I was a kid.”

Steve nodded and Tony said no more. Steve really wanted to ask about this Jarvis, but didn’t want to spoil the fragile mood and he sensed that Tony was already gathering himself up for an evasion. 

Steve took a sip of his hot chocolate. “So, uh, what are you working on?”

“Couple of things. Upgraded failsafes for the helicarrier’s engines. New exploding arrows for Barton. Mostly Bruce and I have been working on an electromagnetic pulsator that could take out targeted electronics, but leave all our tech operational.” 

“That sounds amazing.” Steve said it earnestly, with absolute sincerity. Tony squinted at Steve, searching his face for something else, but after a few seconds Tony relaxed. 

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging it off as he took another sip of cocoa. “I guess so. The key will be using nanoconductors as the mechanism of the signal processing, then creating a temporary feedback loop. Bruce keeps saying that we need to use transceivers—sure, maybe, but the first thing we need to do is figure out how to lock onto the target and eliminate interference.” 

Steve had no idea what any of that could possibly mean, but he nodded attentively as Tony rambled until finally Tony must have identified his confusion. 

“Anyway, bla bla bla. You have no idea what I’m talking about.” 

Tony took another sip of cocoa. Steve opened his mouth to say something (“But it’s still interesting!” or “I like hearing your enthusiasm” or “I know I’m not a genius like you are, but I swear I’m not actually stupid. Give me a chance!”). Steve took a sip of cocoa. 

“I don’t really understand,” Steve admitted. “But it’s still interesting.” (Keep talking!) Tony shrugged and looked at his watch again. (I’m obviously wasting his time.) Tony didn’t take up where he’d left off.

And then Steve found himself fumbling around in his mind for another avenue of conversation and failing utterly. For all the times he’d come into the common areas hoping his team would be there, he hadn’t done much thinking about what he’d say to them if they were. He felt like an awkward little shrimp standing on the sidelines again, tongue-tied and embarrassed. 

Steve wanted to ask a jumble of impossible questions: if Tony had plans for tomorrow with his girl and, if not, if he and his girl were quits or having trouble; if he didn’t celebrate Christmas; if he was really an atheist; if he missed his parents at this time of year--- but Steve had more sense than to pursue any of those topics with Tony and he couldn’t quite figure out what else to say except what he’d said several times already, guilt twisting in his belly: “I was wrong about you on the helicarrier. I was _wrong_.” 

Soon, Tony was nearly done with his hot chocolate. Steve held in a defeated sigh. He stared at his hands. (What’s wrong with you? Why the hell are you suddenly so shy and fumbling, stupid?) Tony set down his mug.

“Hey, Cap?” Tony’s tone was so casual it had to be calculated. “You busy tomorrow? Or, I guess I mean today since it’s after midnight.”

Steve felt something flutter in his chest, but he tried to tamp it down. (He’s just curious. He probably doesn’t even realize tomorrow is Christmas.)

“Busy?” Steve repeated cautiously. There was a long pause. “No. I’m not busy.” 

“All right then,” Tony said with another shrug. “ ‘cause I was thinking, you missed an awfully lot of classic movies and somebody really should start catching you up on that stuff. We could have a marathon. Do _Star Wars_. Maybe Star Trek too. Order Chinese food, drink beer, eat on the couch—that kind of thing.” Tony paused, glancing around the room. “What do you think?”

Steve swallowed a lump in his throat. It took him a moment to force words out: “That . . . that sounds perfect.”

“Yeah? Cool. So, I’m gonna head back to the lab, finish up a few things and maybe catch some sleep. Meet you back up here noonish?” 

And it was then Steve noticed—Tony’s watch didn’t just tell him what time it was; it also told him the date. Steve couldn’t get any more words out, so he just nodded, feeling overwhelmingly grateful. 

“Good.” Tony grinned at Steve, that rakish grin, and scooped up the coffee maker. “So, I’ll see you here. Noon.”

Tony seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Steve forced out the totally insufficient words: “I’ll see you then.” Tony just nodded and sauntered to the elevator, coffee maker cradled in his arms. 

“Looking forward to it,” Steve added softly, probably too late for Tony to hear, but what he really wanted to say was “thank you” or maybe “merry Christmas.” And Stark Tower was still ugly, still sleek and strange, but it finally felt a little less cold. 

**Author's Note:**

> While struggling to write the third story in the Surrender Series, I realized I needed to figure out more of Tony and Steve’s backstory. While figuring that out, I accidentally started writing this—the first time Steve and Tony really shared a moment—and once I’d put it into words, I figured I might as well share, even though it isn't very polished. Hope you enjoyed it! And “Merry Christmas!” (in Steve’s voice) and “Happy Holidays!” (in Bruce’s voice).


End file.
